A Stand Up Gal

A male acquaintance told me the other day he wishes he were a woman. I suppose I don't blame him. Except for an occasional wistful moment when I fantasize about what it would be like to not have to sit down to pee, I have never wished to be a man. I like being a woman, even if it sometimes means I can't stand up.

I was half listening the other day when a local news anchor announced that the number of households in which the mom out-earns the dad has reached a new high. I'm paraphrasing here, but the anchor -- a woman -- commented on how nice it is that women are finally starting to contribute to the family. I thought about going upstairs to clean out my ears. Did she really say that? Note to self: when you're only half listening, at least try not to hear the really stupid parts, because they tend to piss you off. The comment was particularly absurd given that the story also noted the new statistics were attributable, at least in part, to the increased number of single moms trying to do it all (not to be confused with having it all)  when dad is either absent or has, in some other way, dropped the ball.

While my kids were growing up, I was a poster child for failed attempts at having it all. Movie stars and the occasional female prodigy who ends up bursting through the glass ceiling at, say, Yahoo are the exception. Real women may have a lot going on (varicose veins, PMS, bunions spring to mind), but they generally don't have it all. For years, I had one of those plum mommy track jobs, the ones that allow you the flexibility to be around for your kids as much as possible while you still enjoy a little bit of intellectual challenge and even some prestige outside the home. I had the luxury of taking lots of the work home; I could get some of it done after the kids' activities were over and they were fed and in bed, get the rest of it done in the wee hours of the morning before making sure lunches were packed and permission slips were signed and something resembling breakfast was shoveled in. My paycheck was small, and I wasn't exactly getting any merit bonuses at home.  And I still had to sit down to pee. The quest to have it all was exhausting.

Maybe the anchorwoman is onto something. Maybe I should have "contributed" more to the family. Why didn't I think of that? When I look back, though, I never wish I had worked harder to earn more. What I wish is that I had spent more time with my children, not been so tired, not missed so much as a moment of the much too short period of time allotted to me with them. I wish I had sat on the floor with them more, built cabins with Lincoln Logs, messed up the house with art projects, baked more cookies, let them cheat through hours of Scrabble, taken more walks to the park. I wish I had listened better, known more about what was going on in their lives, in their heads. I wish I could have saved them from hurt feelings and playground traumas and I wish I could have reminded them even more often than I did about how much I loved them and always would. Whatever I may have failed to contribute, I have never measured it in dollars and cents.

In the mind of the guy who told me he wished he were a woman, a woman's life is a charmed life, one spent relaxing while somebody else earns all the money. A life of ladies' lunches and manicures and facials and just plain old lazy days spent waiting for kids to come home. A life filled with a lack of contribution and not a care in the world. A world where the greatest hardship involves sitting down to pee. As I have always said (since yesterday anyway), one person's teapot that resembles Hitler is another person's completely innocuous piece of cookware. It's all a matter of perspective.

As skeptical as I am about the whole "having it all" thing, I still hope my daughters -- and my son -- can figure out a way to do it. At the very least, I hope they will always know that the world is indeed their urinal, even when they're sitting down.